


The Wynnchiridion

by flosphorus



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Wynncraft - Fandom
Genre: Bob (Wynncraft) - Freeform, Government Conspiracies, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Horse Gambling, Magic, Meta, NPCs - Freeform, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Play the Game First, Violence, WynnCraft, dumbassery, promise i wont end with just the kings recruit, the gay representation we need
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosphorus/pseuds/flosphorus
Summary: Lucas is another recruit from Fruma and just really wants to do his best. To do so, he'll have to fight the Corruption not only physically, but also within the people he swears to protect.Along the way, he gets help from a mage dropout who loves fire a little too much to not be into arson, an archer extraordinaire who loves her country dearly, and a strange assassin with more connections than she lets on.When a government conspiracy surfaces, it's up to them to rise to the occasion.





	1. Prologue ☙

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted a prologue. Now I get my prologue.

Bob was a Hero first, a homebody last. Nilrem stared at the parchment in his hand, the delicate paper flapping frantically in the plains wind like a dove trying to break loose from his grasp. The parchment was yellowed and crinkled as if the writer had shoved it into the recesses of his bag to collect stains and debris before it was fished out to address a letter. The ink had the texture and color of squid’s ink, indicative of the improvised materials Bob had to work with while he was traveling. Smears lined the page with Bob’s unfortunate left-handed writing, making his already scratchy text seem more like streaks than words. If Nilrem didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that Cluckles had been Bob’s scribe. It wasn’t an uncommon sight—he’s often received letters in worse condition. Once Nilrem swore one was still smoldering by the time it was delivered to him. 

He folded the paper along its creases and stored it in in bag pocket, afraid that the winds would claim the pieces of the letter first.

There was a heavy air surrounding this particular letter—not that Nilrem was unfamiliar with this experience. Everything Bob did was in some way, shape, or form dangerous; a Hero has a duty to face danger, after all. Ironically, it was this type of simple letter without all the war wounds to highlight its journey that had concerned him the most. It was obviously sent with urgency, unlike previous reports that Bob would haphazardly compile before sending it off, scorch marks, food stains, and chicken feathers included.

_ “Dear Nilrem,” _ the letter began,

_ “It’s been much too long, I know. I’m afraid it will be longer yet. To be frank, this task was indeed to be matched with a Hero, yet I can’t shake off the feeling that the timing isn’t right. You already know how I’d like my ‘grave’ to be handled. I’ve also taken the liberty of scattering my animals across the ocean. If not myself, my other companions will still be around. _

__ _ Please complete the tasks as soon as possible. With luck, I will see everyone soon. _

__ _ Love, Bob.” _

   Nilrem had often found himself yearning for his friend’s written company, yet he dreaded this outcome the most—this hastily written de facto will in front of him. Careful what you wish for, he had gritted through grief.

   The preparations that Bob had detailed had been a small feat and a heavy task. The stone that chipped off of Bob’s dummy corpse tumbled into his heart, weighing it down with every tap of the chisel. Nilrem had stepped back to see his work and had closed his eyes, in fatigue or grief, he did not know. The bastardized corpse could never compare to the brilliance of Bob, not even in its unmoving clay death. A run-of-the-mill adventurer would be satisfied after discovering it, if they were to find it at all; to the trained eye, however, it would be apparent that this was not the former Bob. Nilrem had prayed he would avoid a conversation about this in the future.

After he had cleared out a cave in Nesaak, he had glamoured the entrance to challenge anyone who dared to find the secret of Bob’s tomb, turning away most, if not all, adventurers. Many had figured that the high security was out of respect to Bob’s memory and to keep stray corrupted beings from desecrating it in vengeance. For the days that had followed, white flowers littered the tomb, matching the pure white snow that slept eternally on the ground.

And while the country shed its tears, he travelled to Time Valley, fit snugly between the Pigman Ravines and the Nivla Woods. The breeze of the plains was staggered by the ruins that lay before him, seemingly random and pointless. He felt the ancient magic fluttering in the air, trace yet powerful, following wind currents, their wills too weak to change directions. His walking cane hummed with the magic that curiously flowed through it, tentatively channeling through as though it was a wand. Though the magic remained weaker than back in ancient times, the valley was still considered to be the most magical (and by extension, cryptic) place in Wynn.

Looking back at his research, this magic was certainly the justification for the Olm settlement. It was appropriately chosen for its mystical properties, even if it was not realized at first glance. After all, the Olm were not the kind of society that allowed for asinine decisions, especially those concerning their rituals.

He couldn’t imagine that many of the structures had much use to him as much as they did to the people that came before him. Between the cracked stone bricks and clouded gems, the victims of time roamed the grounds, speeding up and slowing down their pace on occasion, as if deciding whether or not the paradox of their time loops still applied to their conditional mortalities. He stepped aside to dodge the incoming paths of several lost adventurers that crumbled to thin dust after a couple of moments as though the mere disturbance caused by Nilrem’s presence had pained them so much that they died. They would reappear, of course, doomed to travel the same time loop without end. To think, even brushing past an item’s cursed aura would damn him like that…Nilrem shivered at the thought.

He pushed those concerns aside. His mission was too important to abandon over something as trivial as fear. After all, these ruins were where the identity of Bob the Hero was first forged. These ruins were where the next Hero would show.

The breeze blew infinitely past him, giving no definite intervals. It was as if the spirits of the Olm were encouraging him, nay, daring him to continue their ancient rituals. With a sigh and the tapping of his walking stick, Nilrem continued on the beaten path to find a place to stay.

And in the distance, yet closer than usual, a door creaked open.


	2. The King's Recruit ☙

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah. It's the classic first quest. With any hope there will be a second chapter and also a plot.

You have to be grateful for the little accidents in life, so today you are grateful for the rock that stopped your journey short. If not for that bump, the wheel wouldn’t have broke, and if the unbalanced wheel hadn’t veered your rudely-awakened self to the side, you wouldn’t have noticed that your stowed weapon was about to impale you. Then again, it was the impact of the wheel breaking that had caused it to fall from its shelf in the first place. In any case, fate has a sick sense of humor.

You make a silent noise, and back away reflexively from the weapon that nearly turned you into a regional delicacy--and tumble straight out of the caravan. The caravan’s height, askew from the wheel damage, mitigates the drop you suffer, but it could not spare you from the driver’s bewildered looks. “This is a man who is supposed to protect this country,” his incredulous expression seems to say.

“Apologies,” you offer meekly.

“Don’t apologize to me. The King is the one who’ll be waiting for the latecomer. You best get a move on!” He jabs a finger in the direction of the path. You shuffle your way up and off the grass awkwardly.

In the background, the horses pace around in an impatient panic, awaiting instruction and reassurance from their owner to get over the offending rock. He waves his hands in a downward to calm down the horses, then turns back to you. Evidently, he’s overwhelmed between his epiphany on the unfortunate truth about soldiers’ competence, the broken caravan wheel, and the horses that were much too jumpy to be safe in a mountain pass. For now, he focuses on making sure the horses didn’t cause a rockslide from their outburst. 

From the corner of your eye, you deduce that the wheel would take a considerable amount of time to fix, more time than you had to reach the fortress of Ragni. The wheel’s structure is compromised, its once-perfect circle bent into an eye. A part of the wood frame lay shattered about a stone’s throw away, quite telling of the sudden impulse that drove into the offending rock. You’re to have to make the rest of the way on foot.

As the horses neigh wildly, you give a silent thanks to the god who spared you from the burdens of equine care and instead busied you to pull your things from the caravan. You pack lightly because you never had much to begin with. A spear, some light adventurer’s clothing, a little bit of embroidery, and a handful of government-issued navigational tools are at your disposal and little else. This can’t be it. You rummage around the caravan to see if you missed anything, then counted on your fingers the things you owned and realized you didn’t get past your ten fingers. Everything was accounted for, unfortunately. With great sorrow, you are reminded why you were here embarrassing yourself in front of the first person you met.

It’s because you’re flat broke.

Distracting yourself from your economical status, you flip absentmindedly through the pages of the palm-sized quest book that you received as part of your provisions and notice that there was only one task printed: to report to the King’s castle. The rest of the pages are blank, just eggshell-white pieces of paper bound together, deceivingly so, as the book is supposedly enchanted to post citizens’ requests within the pages. Your level dictates the degree of help that an individual would need. From what you’ve heard, it would be awhile before you wrestle with any dragons. For now, you would mostly be assigned with pest control and fetch errands, yet you can’t help but feel relief that the system is set up this way. All the better to keep the hairs on your head till you retire.

The nonchalant huffs of the horses notify you that the driver finished averting certain catastrophe, and you turn around at the noise, which surprises the driver once again, the finger halfway to tapping your shoulder flinching back.

“A… A refund. For not taking you all the way,” he stutters. He drops a couple of emeralds each the size of your thumb into your open palm. The driver then takes a deep breath and brushes down his pants briefly to recover himself after being caught off-guard twice. 

“Buy yourself some armor or something. You look a little thin to be a soldier, but a nice suit of armor might fix that.” His eyes stare a tad too long into yours for his words to be sincere. It was almost as if he’s convincing himself that he wouldn’t be returning to Fruma with a hearse.

He breaks the awkward stare with a snap of his fingers in recollection, then rests them at the bottom of his chin, and reminds you:

“Ah, word of advice, Wynn doesn’t have the same magic restrictions as Fruma. Place is practically bursting with magic. You should have learned a spell or two in your training, if I recall correctly.” 

He puts his hands out in alarm and elaborates, “But don’t try it here! There’s a clearing down the road; it should be safer there.” His eyes dart nervously to the top of the mountains, then back to you, telling you to take the hint. He’s right. It wasn’t ideal to practice a spell that splits the ground open in a place where the ground should stay together for you two to, well, not die.

“And this is where we part ways. Hurry now, the King’s waiting!” His words flicker off at the end as he shifts his attention from you to his broken caravan without another regard. Almost comically, the open-eye shape of the wheel finally blinks closed, eliciting from the driver a string of provincial expletives.

It’s about time for you to get down the path anyway. The gates shadow you, its shade colliding with the warm sun rays as you make your way down the rocky aisle. As if on cue, the previously blocked wind blew your hair gently, nudging your head toward the direction of the clearing, and you notice the scenery for the first time after being cooped up in a small and dark caravan for days. It’s like the universe around you is shifting to compensate for the monotony that you endured in your immigration. The mountain pass smooths down gently into a brightly lit clearing. The sky seems bluer on the other side of the mountain; the grand majesty of the clouds floats gracefully by like a debutante gliding down the castle halls. If not for the Corruption that plagues Wynn, it would have been paradise.

A breeze picks up within the meadow inside the clearing, rippling the grass and exposing its silvery layers like fish schooling across lush green waters. The trees nod their branches and rustle in hasty agreement with others, shaking down leaves that float and spin in the wind. Fallen leaves swirl in a spiral, reminiscent of fairies dancing in a ring.

The lazy movements of the grooks and cows catch in your peripheral vision. They are essentially useless without people to use them for the livestock purpose they were created for. They roam free, without direction, without ambition, without purpose. Many idle in groups of their own species, never forgetting the instinct of safety in numbers. It’s your first reminder of civilization, and it makes you all the more excited to reach the Ragni fortress.

You hustle on past them, sticking your spear randomly in whatever passed your path to secure your meals for tonight. After all, you have very little to live on, even with the driver’s refund. No feathers are ruffled amongst the live animals to the murder of their fallen comrades, their eyes glazed over stupidly, jaded by millennia of slaughter they accept as fate, both from the corruption and from domestication. 

You stop hunting after picking a grook up by its stiff legs and realize why others hadn’t gotten to the seemingly bountiful food supply first. The flesh is thin and sinewy beneath the down feathers of the fowl, giving it a prideful appearance despite the truth that lay underneath. That would explain their lethargy. To believe, the greenness of the clearing is a mere facade: a cruel reminder that there was little to go around after the advent of the corruption, so much so that not even the pitiful grooks could sustain themselves. 

Abandoning your mission of hunting, you hurry along at a significantly faster pace, eventually coming across a friendly lumberjack. He tips his hat to you when he notices you in the distance, then continues with his work, his arms swinging in a wide arc before splitting another log and tossing it onto the log pile. You give him a smile and a wave back, then make the mistake of not looking at the road before walking.

You stand at the edge of the fallen bridge, and you shuffle backward, a handful of dust getting kicked into the chasm below as your erratic movements compromise both the bridge’s integrity and your own life. The floorboard under your right foot snaps and you pray your last words silently.

Just in the nick of time, the lumberjack from earlier hauls you up by the shoulders and frees your foot from the hole that had damn nearly cost your life. As you inhale a sharp gasp, your wide eyes look ahead, observing that the bridge was collapsed in the middle, and you are disappointed yourself for not noticing it earlier.

For the second time since you entered this country, you’ve fallen and made a fool of yourself again. Forget corruption, you’d be dead before you reached anything if you kept up this pattern.

The lumberjack puts his hands on his knees and squats to level his eyes with yours.

“You alright kid? Thank Bob that yer such a small thing right now because I’m not as strong as I look.”

“...I am now.”

“It was really kind of you to stop and wave to me, but I think you should consider  _ stopping  _ and waving next time.”

“Duly noted.”

“By the way, that’s the only bridge over the ravine. I’m afraid we’re quite at the mercy of the government to fix it now. The earlier recruits weighed it down too much and it just broke under all that weight.”

He huffs under his breath, “Ragni’s definitely not going to show us much mercy here.”

You certainly can’t have that. You were supposed to be at the castle hours ago! You get up and walk along the edge of the ravine. Your eyes search restlessly around, sometimes landing on the lumberjack, who looks back at you in bewilderment and sympathy. You make smaller steps along the edge, glancing over the edge before getting another shot of vertigo and pulling back, shivering. Your gaze rests upon a tall tree a little ways from the snapped drawbridge. 

The thick branches at the top creak in the powerful winds that graze the tops of mountains. Sharp, distinct grooves in the bark indicate years of wear, carved and petrified into the dark wood. You didn’t study at any fancy mage academy, but it didn’t take much of a genius to do some improvised bridge engineering. You reckon if the laws of gravity agree with you today, the grand oak would make an excellent bridge.

Forget the Wynn government. You’re the Wynn government now. Your first decree is that this tree is going down.

You rub your hands together to work up some friction with your spear. What was that spell again? Right, Bash. You mutter the three words for the spell, feeling the magic redirecting from not only yourself but from the environment around you into the spear. It heats up in your grasp and then you jam it into a part where the bark is thin.

The green tinge of the young wood within the tree shows through the large smile you just carved, spitting splinters as the cut grows wider. You want your eyes intact when you meet the king, so you shield them halfway with your elbow to watch the tree fall. The tops of the tree rustle like bells as the rest of the trunk groans its vertical descent. 

The tremor reverberates through the ground on the other side but you hold your ground in front of the watching lumberjack, determined to keep at least some honor of being a Ragni soldier. Nearby, a flock of grooks squawks in terror and scatters around, and continued to do so even after the tremor subsides. You turn around to check the lumberjack’s status, hoping you didn’t just make your first civilian kill. He stares back at you with his jaw open, then looks sidelong to register what just happened.

“It’s a good thing that environmental group disbanded some times ago,” he jokes, voice quavering. “And now we have ourselves a bridge. Hey, thanks fer that. Your first heroic act and you ain’t even army yet!” He laughs, then struts back to his lumber pile, leaving you, a panicked grook running in circles, and a bridge.

Well, you have a bridge. It was time to cross it. You heave yourself up the gnarled roots and step carefully onto the flatter surfaces of the trunk, exposed after the bark had peeled away from the impact it suffered. You tap around your next steps with your spear, using it as a third leg. The river below roars faintly below, and even looking down gave you vertigo that leaves your head uneasy. It would have been worse with the wind, but thankfully the mountains behind you block the breeze from blowing you over.

When your spear pokes the thick brush of leaves, you sigh in relief and take a careful leap off the trunk onto the ground. The things in your bag clatter around as they land with you. You peek inside to make sure you didn’t lose any of your three emeralds and snap the bag shut again.

Just a little more now.

The beginnings of the mine are over a short hill, the pointy edges of the cave rounded off with bits of scaffolding. The mine comes closer into view as you walk toward it. There is a soldier stationed in front with standard armor that you recognize was issued by Ragni. He stands to attention as soon as he hears your footsteps approaching on the road. 

“Last recruit?” he asks.

He doesn’t wait for a response before pointing at the sign beside him.

“You’ll need a helmet to get through. Tons of corrupted in there, can’t risk losing you so soon,” he says, casually waving to a merchant nearby. “Helmets are three emeralds.”

Wasn’t that an army supply? Not even a military discount? You have the three emeralds, sure, but you  _ only  _ have three emeralds. You don’t feel like starving outside tonight. Between the crippling realities of the Corruption and your poverty, you’ll take your chances with the corruption. At least those monsters could be killed. You face away from the guard to make your decision. 

Your eyes track a stray cow strolling by, getting to the side where the grass was indeed greener. Cow… Cow? Cows have skin. Skin called leather. Leather for a helmet. You need a helmet. You have leather. Wait. You have leather? Where?

Keeping your sight on the cow, you pat around for the satchel resting on your hip. The felt texture of the material meets your fingertips. You had dead cow on you the entire time. Your second decree as the Wynn government is to save some emeralds and craft your own helmet.

You retreat to the corner and spill the contents of your bag, assessing your items as they tumble out. Lucky you owned so little, now that your stuff all needed some place to go. You shove the compass and the petite quest book inside the deep pockets of your pants, then fold up your other clothing into rolls and stuffed them inside your belt and some into your other pocket. You enclose the three emeralds into the embroidery kit, jangling against their new tin compartment. The rest of your things fit snugly on your person, much to your relief (though you considered some more questionable places to put things in). 

You pick up your embroidery hoop next. The attached piece will never come to fruition, unfortunately; you grimace as you loop a couple of finishing knots near the unfinished petals. You pluck the docked needle and bite the string apart.

You conjure a short obituary in your mind for the satchel that had served you thus far. Lived… stored your stuff for a while… then became a helmet. Donations will be taken in lieu of flowers. You take a deep breath then rip through the thick seams with the tip of your blade. 

After taking apart the seams and spitting out the stray strings you had to pull out with your teeth, you flatten the fabric upon the grass to the best of your ability. The grass disagrees with you, distorting the fabric rebelliously under your hands.

You wrap the almost-square of fabric around your head, keeping your finger on the size as you lay it down again. A couple of quickly placed stitches later, you have something resembling a helmet. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just tough.

Fitting on your new helmet, you stand up and brush the grass off your pants, revealing the green stains they leave as a farewell. You tuck your things to secure them another time and approach the guard again. 

“What took you? I doubt haggling over prices takes half an hour. Did you get a good deal from it?” he sneers. Like the flip of a coin, his face turns sympathetic.

“I kid, I kid. They really don’t pay us enough, huh? Go on through and follow the path. Here’s a tip: don’t be a hero. The Ragni guard is standing by toward the castle, but there’s no knowing what the Corrupted are capable of.” The guard unhinges the door and allows you to pass.

The cave is a lot bigger on the inside. Corrupteds with rusted pickaxes idle near rough emerald ores. It’s like they’re holding onto their old lives but simply forgot what to do. But you know better. The Corruption leaves little trace of humanity behind once it takes hold. You tread carefully deeper into the clearing of the cave, the floor turning bumpy and uneven under the soles of your boots. The latch clicks back into place behind you. No turning back now.

A Corrupted miner stumbles into your vicinity. Your familiar (yet panicked) instinct keeps your head cool, but your body tense. The strange adrenaline in your veins backs up with the conflicting instincts to both fight and flee.

You thrust your spear forward into its chest; black oil pours out of the wound in place of blood. Despite its “blood” loss, it retaliates, unfazed. It raises its pickaxe over its head and just barely scrapes your forehead, hitting the helmet instead. Thank Bob that the guard required armor before passing, else you would have appeared to the King less than palatable. You intercept the pick with your spear handle before it could continue with its downward slash, then push the miner into the cavern wall. It staggers a bit before it slumps down. More oil pours out of the body until it is unmoving. You back away from the body slowly, making sure the signs of life (or rather, undead life) completely disappears from it before continuing your way along the gravel path. The last thing you see before shifting your gaze is the melting of the corpse into the black oil of which it is composed.

“Hey you!” a voice suddenly calls out. You jolt your attention to the abandoned scaffolding beside you. The voice seems to be coming from the storage sheds. 

“Yes, you! Ragni soldier, come get me out of here and I’ll help you fend off the Corrupted!”

He sounds desperate. Had the others forsaken him? Judging from the dry splits in the wood, the moldy black roof had fallen recently, effectively trapping him. Luckily, he’s out of reach from the Corrupteds mobbing the blocked entrance, equally incapable of breaking the barricade. However, he can’t run away from the issues of starving to death in there, no matter how much distance there is between him and the Corrupteds.

At the risk of being overwhelmed by the undead and thus leaving the both of you to die, you can’t simply charge in there arrows blazing. And given your first encounter with them, you’re smart enough to deduce that four on one would be a fairly decisive fight. Then there’s the problem with the boards. If you want to save this man, you are going to have to risk your life. No wonder the others left him for dead.

You sprint to another shed to search for materials. The soldier makes a betrayed noise and calls for you to come back. You grit your teeth and promise to come back for him under your breath. You don’t want to risk catching the attention of the Corrupteds, and he’s safe in his blocked shed. Actually, you  _ want  _ as many Corrupteds as possible to congregate there for your plan.

Your eyes widen as you find what you’re looking for, and you sit back in the safety of your own shed to stabilize your shaking hands. Your fingers pull a match from the numerous matchboxes nearby, which you imagine were used once upon a time for lighting cigarettes, lamps or for something more important-- dynamite. You scrape the match against the stippled matchbox surface and it ignites, producing a small, dancing flame that burns quickly down the wooden stick that contains it. You touch the flame with the fuse of the dynamite in your hand. The flame parts its protege onto the fuse before meeting its timely demise under a handful of gravel you toss over it. The other spark, however, moves along the fuse string fast, and you chuck it quickly to the shed, where it disappears into the crowd of Corrupteds.

“Fire in the hole!” you shout, and hopefully, the soldier understood. You squeeze your ears with your hands and brace yourself for the explosion. A dull boom rattles your bones. Your hands can’t stop the tremor that rocks the cave or the debris that starts raining over your head from both the gravel dust and undead body parts (and with luck, no living parts).

The soldier staggers out, shaken, but unscathed, his iron sword in hand. He looks at you furiously, then looks back and forth around his surroundings, flabbergasted at the sight.

“Bloody Dern, you’d almost killed me there, soldier! But then again, my comrades had left me for dead. So some gratitude is in order. I told you I’d fight off the undead for you, but it seems like somehow you went ahead and did it all for me! I’ll accompany you back to Ragni, and we can call it even.”

You push on ahead with the soldier, stopping only to thin out the undead that come too close for comfort. He faces on stoically ahead, glancing back occasionally in what you think was a fatherly sort of concern. He still keeps his attention on the hordes of Corrupted, flashes of steel cutting them down.

He attempts to make idle chatter: “New recruit, eh? Fruma, I presume. You’re really late but lucky I had you to get me out of that hellhole.”

“I had a travel mishap.”

“You think the King will like your ‘travel mishap’ excuse? ...You look nervous there, soldier. Hey, I was just joking around.”

All his talk sort of make you feel at home. Sort of. You have a long way to go before you got used their fun behavior. They are very, ah, friendly people. You wonder if the King would be the same way.

“What’s your name, by the way?”

“Lucas; and you?” you reciprocate politely as you drive your spear into an incoming Corrupted miner.

“Oh, me? I’m just a nobody. Don’t worry about my name, worry about my cause! I’m a proud soldier of Ragni, that’s what!

You add “patriotic” to the ongoing list of traits to describe the Ragni people. So far your list consists of their jokes made at your expense and not much else; it’s not all bad, but you can live without the banter.

The light of the castle shines white through the cave ahead, brilliant and luminous. If only the glare would clear up, you could have finally seen the castle in all its glory. Emerald dust lost to decades of industrial mining glints in the air, reflecting flecks of green onto the walls of the cave. You feel like you were missing some kind of metaphor involving the King and his castle’s proximity to what used to be one of the most unregulated emerald mines in Wynn, but you push the thought aside for now.

The army guards the gate in neat row formations, unwavering. A couple of soldiers in front are hacking down Corrupteds with ease under the protection of their iron armor and sharpened swords. Two iron golems stand by the gates as insurance for the castle’s protection; the sounds of their joints groaning reverberate through the tall mine, adding to the din of the fighting. 

As you approach the gate, you both break into a half-sprint: you, impatient to meet the King, and he, his fellow brothers-in-arms. 

He gives his parting words to you: “And this is where I leave and you go see the King. Serve Ragni well, young recruit!”

The other guards poke their heads out in curiosity after noticing their friend’s familiar face, breaking rank temporarily in teary joy, hugging and patting the soldier before melding back into their ranks together. He forgets that not too long ago, those same people had left him for dead in a moldy shed. Just another kind of virtue you can find in Ragni, you guess; something about bygones being bygones. He waves you farewell and faces forward again with soft gratitude on his face.

Your run slows to a walk as you pass through the gates. You tilt your head up to observe the impressive iron golems. One looks back at you with beady red eyes indicative of the mechanical wiring inside. There are some parts where the sheen of the iron has faded and is tarnishing, on its way to rusting. When the golem catches the light, you note scratches of steel wool on iron, revealing the rigorous upkeep of the golems.

Past the gates is a garden to still innocent to the Corruption that creeps beside it. The steep contrast between this and… whatever chaos that cave was decelerates you, finally strolling at an appropriate pace. Funny that you were in such a rush to see the King before, but now that you’re here, you want to stop and smell both the metaphorical and literal roses. 

It’s not long before your stroll brings you through the garden pathway and into the King’s castle. It’s a lot bigger inside than it appears on the outside. Now to find your way around this place. You duck your head in the dining room, cutlery set up with a pastry stand stacked in the middle; then the memorabilia room, lined with the armor of heroes you don’t recognize. You can’t fathom how the King keeps track of all his rooms because you’re totally lost.

From behind you, a servant coughs to get your attention. Oh, everything is...behind you. Awkward. You rotate 180 degrees and wonder why you didn’t notice the overly ornate doorway before. Straight ahead is a mirrored floor, polished so that you can already see the detail of the ceiling from where you stand. The King sits on his throne at the end of the mirror, too far away for you to perceive his expression. You imagine he’s furious at your tardiness. Only one way to find out.

The servant guides you with poise, prompting you to match his gait, but you weren’t trained in that sort of thing, so you settle for just taking careful steps as to not let your boots squeak against the floor. As the King comes into view, you look down out of respect. But before that, you glance upward for just a second to catch his expression. It looks soft and inviting, just like the rest of the Ragni people that you had the pleasure of meeting before him. Surprised by this, you instantly forgo your manners to meet his kind eyes. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“The last recruit!” he announces to you and to nobody else, but not in a manner as if he were chastising you, rather, he was  _ excited _ to see you. Ragnians are a tough bunch of people to figure out, you think.

“A little late, but the saying goes ‘Better late than never!’” Funny how your lateness is a topic that the Ragnians can’t let go of. You write a mental reminder to be punctual and avoid the passive-aggressive fest this is turning to be.

“Welcome to the fort of Ragni, one of the oldest and most influential cities in the Wynn province. As your letter stated, your job here is to drive back the growth of the monsters and to provide relief to the citizens of Wynn.”

The servant steps forward to bestow upon you a teleport scroll and fourteen more emeralds. The scroll hums with its minute magic, waiting to be released. The emeralds do nothing cool, as they are nothing but shiny rocks, but you feel more a sense of hospitality from the gift.

He blinks disarmingly at you and adds: “You’ll still need the standard issue items. Head over to the military office and talk to the receptionist inside. And good luck! I’m expecting many great things from you.”

He smiles at you knowingly, like there’s a double meaning or a hilarious joke in there that you’ve failed to pick up. No one else seems to be in on it, so the King will keep his secrets for now.

Outside the castle, Ragni and all of her people bustle about, welcoming you to the trials ahead.


	3. Poisoning the Pest ☙

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our friend Lucas discovers the government.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a long time, woah! But it also clocks in at around 4000 words so hopefully it'll keep y'all entertained. Peace

You suppose that the budget for the military would be tight during a time of unrest, but not to an extent where the local kitchen would be converted to a recruiting office. A sign on the door notifies customers that the head chef had moved to Gavel after surrendering his property to the government. The windows on the outside are blocked by the backs of bookshelves on the inside, giving it the impression of being boarded up. It’s a strange sight to see on one of Ragni’s main streets.

You crack the door open and call inside: “Hello? Is anybody there? The King sent me.” Well, you’ve given whoever’s inside enough warning. You step into the building, the wooden floor creaking under your step.

Dust motes hover about the midday light and gather onto the surfaces of the books strewn about the room. You pick up a book and read the first few words, sounding out the phonetic language aloud, but not understanding a single word. You’ve (mostly) mastered all twenty-six letters individually, but you don’t recognize them when they’re together, ironically. You shut the book, leaving your clean hand impression on the dust and opt for lighter reading on the wall. The back of the wall frames a cork bulletin board, mottled in different shades from the posters that prevent the board underneath from fading. Something about keeping bank accounts, something about community forums, something about a virtual map…? It seems the more you read, the less you know.

You scan the rest of the room to see what’s around, and you jump upon seeing someone among the books. How have you not seen him? You lean closer for a better look.

A man in robes has his head on the desk in front of you, sleeping. His candle’s burnt low and still burning, the melted wax caught inside a tarnished candle holder. One arm curls protectively over his head, the other wraps around a book as if he were hiding the contents from onlookers (of which he’s doing effectively). With his forehead to the book, his dark brown hair obscures the text he’s reading further. His overall posture is just a recipe for neck pain that he’s going to deal with once you wake him up. 

You’ve got to get going, so you shake his shoulder to arouse him from his nap. His eyelids flutter open and close indecisively.

“Leave the groceries on the counter,” he mumbles, then closes his eyes again.

You stand there, dumbfounded. How do you respond to something like that? You stand in place awkwardly for a couple of heartbeats.

His eyes snap open. “You’re not the one I sent earlier.”

He trips over himself trying to adjust his hair, his clothes, and his papers simultaneously. As if realizing you’re still here, his spine shoots straight up and he folds his hands politely in front of him. It’s like you’re watching a bittercress seed explode. He falters as he rubs the back of his neck after the adrenaline had gone from him. You commend his recovery time though. Very professional.

“Salutations, I’m Eiden... Hamses.” He mumbles the last part. 

“Just Eiden,” he asserts. “I bet a hundred liquid emeralds that you’re the last recruit. Thanks for that; now I don’t have to go digging for your name like I did all the other ones. Apparently, the recruiters here can’t sort by alphabetical order.”

You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, but you think in a way you did help him. As he said, your name is the only one left on the sheet in front of him. He checks off the box next to your name and bends to the side to get a package of neatly folded clothes and more armor. He slides it across the desk, pauses another second, then bends over the other side of his chair to pick something else. What can it be? He’s already given you the standard stuff.

Eiden tosses a bag in your direction; you catch it. It’s a new bag. Sweet Selchar, your bag has returned to you. You sling it over your shoulder familiarly. It’s great.

“I’m no scholar--oh wait, I am-- but your bag was missing, so I gave you a spare. Your helmet isn’t military-grade either, but I would suggest keeping it on instead of the standard one. It has some unique magic coming from it, actually. Could be helpful.”

“Thank you. Ragni is quite hospitable.”

He gives you a look with pursed lips as if to say “you sure about that” and does not elaborate further. You’re completely baffled, yet thankful for this strange man. You add “hard to figure out” to the list of Ragnian traits.

“Changing room’s over there. Not sure what the last recruits did in there, so watch your step.” He stands up and gestures to a changing closet. You oblige.

You change quickly, not wasting time for details. The armor fits nicely, actually, and it shines with a dullness that comes from disuse. The Ragni emblem is embedded in the center of the chest plate in crimson and gold like drops of blood and ichor in a resin vial, symbolic of Ragni’s long-standing fortitude. The motif shows in many other places on your clothing to identify you from many angles. On your shirt along with the Ragni emblem is a name tag with your name etched in; at the end of your name is a short dash to indicate your lack of last name. It’s obvious the armor is designed to identify corpses when they’re inevitably excavated from the battlegrounds; Grim, but practical. You’ve completed this mission of keeping your eyes intact for the King, so you take your helmet off for now and store it in your bag. 

The mage perks up as you open the door to the changing closet. He’s packing his things into his own bag. You know you were late, but you also know that not enough time has elapsed between your arrival and your registration to justify Eiden closing shop this early. He senses your confusion and responds, “There’s a request on the fields to help Cevalus get rid of his farm pests. This is the third time he’s complained this month so I’m the mage who’s going to fix it and with luck, shut him up for good.” He huffs in exasperation.

“Are you going to… assassinate him?”

“No, what?”

Oh.

“What kind of pests are they? Corrupteds?” you ask.

“Could be rats, could be Bak’al himself,  Bob knows he couldn’t get any vaguer in his request descriptions. We’ll find out when we get there.”

He deliberates for a second and adds, “...I forgot to invite you. You should come with me. I can show you around since you aren’t familiar with Wynn, and just to let you know, the ‘virtual map’ they offer is unnavigable at best. With Wynn’s rampant  _ illiteracy _ ,” he alludes back to his earlier complaint about the recruiters, “I can’t fathom why they made such a text-heavy map in the first place.” 

He finishes writing a notice of his absence and tacks it to the window of the door. The wet ink drips from the paper and onto the similarly spattered door window.

He turns back to say: “It’s just going to be a quick tutorial and you’ll be on your way. Take the job; I’ll let you keep half the reward.”

He slides on the bag across his shoulder and reaches for his wand next, a long wooden stick smoldering indefinitely at the top. Gray smoke puffs from the wand, dissipating almost as soon as it appears--magic fire. He gives his wrist a twirl and stows it in his belt loop. The glass charm in the shape of a scorpion on his belt clatters against the other potions he’s put on his belt for quick access as he coordinates himself.

There’s no reason to reject his offer, and besides, he’s right when he says you aren’t good with Wynn. You recall your first moments in between the Wynnic and Fruman border were uncoordinated, to say the least.

Eiden doesn’t wait for your response--or perhaps he already knows that you would accept-- and holds the door open letting the sun rays leak into the dark room.  

-

Ragni is bright and beautiful in the midday light. The castle looms behind you, yet it casts no shadow over the town center. To the right, the ocean breeze passes through, bringing with it the scents of the ocean and the ancient sewers, and to the left, the stillness of the solemn ravines are only disturbed by wandering pigmen. A pigman strays too close to the city gates and is promptly met with the crushing, fatal blows of the iron golems that stand guard. The rest of the pigmen huddle closer together after the golems’ effusive actions. You’re glad the iron golems are on your side.

The front gate straight ahead of you is much larger than the other two gates. Eiden tells you that it was designed to handle the volume of trade that comes in from Detlas. The worn path that begins when the cobblestone streets end is evidence to his factoid. The mage stretches his back briefly, then heads toward the main gate without a sound. Glass bottles rattle in his bag as he takes his long, calculated strides. You match his pace, following adjacent to him.

It’s high noon out. People are bustling about the main roads, a little standoffish at the sight of a noobish recruit bumbling around, but they still remember to begrudgingly pay their respects for your service. You pass through the crowd, taking note of the services that you might need: the bank, the blacksmiths, the item identifiers. Some of the item identifiers recognize Eiden and call out to him. He ignores them.

“Aren’t those your friends?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he replies, “They just want to remind me that I was the only one who failed the item identifying course. It was years ago, and frankly, it’s annoying that they would still bring it up.”

The both of you pass the rest of the shops in relative silence, with you only taking brief pauses to take in the beauty of the city. It’s a complete turn-around from what you were taught to expect before your arrival; you had expected something a lot more dreary: less life and more ferality. Eiden reminds you to keep an eye on the road before you “trip over the locals”. He means the rats that occasionally peek out of sewer drains with their beady, intelligent eyes. That aspect of Ragni won’t ever go away, no matter how pretty it dresses itself up.

-

The main gate looms ahead with iron golems standing guard to protect the city. The only thing separating you from the gate is a stone bridge that stretches over a ravine. The ravine is the natural moat of Ragni, made obsolete by the hulking gray walls that surround the city. Sewage trickles into the green water, telling of its contemporary purpose. It stinks to high heavens.

At the end of the bridge is a knight dressed not unlike yourself, but his armor looks significantly more battered. Upon seeing you, he lights up and approaches, grabbing your wrist with both of his hands in a zealous handshake. You flinch at the unanticipated power of his grip. Eiden waits for a moment, then after realizing that your conversation may take some time, proceeds out of the gate by himself. Both you and the knight watch him leave unceremoniously.

“Enzan,” he introduces himself, not yet letting go of your hand, which you fear is quickly turning blue. “I’m a retired knight of this fortress. Oh, it’s so good to see that Ragni’s staying strong with young recruits like you.”

“Sir Enzan,” you stammer to get a word in. Enzan continues with an edge of urgency in his tone.

“So you want to venture into the wilderness, eh? Have I the thing for you. Well, it’s not on me right now, per se, but my brother Therck has it. He’s at the entrance of the Nivla Woods. He’s got a stick up the wrong place but he’ll talk to you if you tell him I sent you.”

He lets go of his iron grip. You refrain from shaking it off as to not disrespect the knight. Your hand flexes into a fist then an open palm to get the blood flowing again. 

“Good luck, adventurer! Your friend went left of the gate, you’d better go catch up, seems like Cevalus’ got more than just pest trouble!” He laughs heartily.

You make a quick mental note to visit Therck after your quest. Then you catch up to Eiden.

-

You arrive at the farm only to witness Eiden in a heated argument with the farmer.

“So you’re telling me that you didn’t follow the legal--no, at this point, it’s just the logical-- procedure for sending off the dead?”

“I’m not going to let the Ragni government tell me what to do with  _ my  _ father, mage. It’s not like you’ve been here long enough to know what it is to be a real Ragnian,” he retorts. Eiden flinches at the comment and stays silent, creating an uncomfortable tension between himself and the farmer.

“What seems to be the issue?” you interject, a show of courtesy so your emeralds don’t get docked.

“Finally, a level-headed knight. It seems that my father, whom I’ve taken the liberty of giving the proper funerary rites to, has reanimated because of the Corruption, and now this delinquent’s shown up on my land as well.”

Eiden steps back to your side, his wand sparking profusely in correspondence with his own shortening fuse. He doesn’t say anything, a passive encouragement for you to secure the quest and tonight’s meals.

The Corrupted being stands like a scarecrow in the middle of Cevalus’ field, except it was scaring more than just crows. The being is idle for now; you suspect that its vision is limited, but if a farmer is calling for a quester’s help then it must be more formidable than you know. It’s setting fires around the land, but for the most part the damage is contained within a tight circle. You doubt it’ll ever become the new Bak’al.

“I can’t have you trampling on my crops, so I’ll ask you to do your thing--” He makes stabbing gestures with his hands, “--quickly if you would please.”

Looking at it, you grimace. From your judgment, it’ll be difficult to control the damage if you engage it. The idle flames dotting the area around the Corrupted corpse only substantiates your assumptions. Why’d it have to live somewhere so flammable? Luckily, you have a mage at your disposal.

You ask, “Eiden, are you capable of any freezing magic?”

He scoffs. “Who do you think I am, a Twain? No, the mage academy doesn’t teach that magic. If you want to know, the only real spell I have right now is healing. Make what you will of it. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He’s testing you. Or perhaps he doesn’t know what to do either. Something tells you it’s the latter.

You scout around the farm, peeking over the fences and taking extra precautions to make sure you didn’t alert the Corrupted in the center, shooting fireballs in a densely charred crop circle. Your prognosis is that you’re not getting within a literal ten-foot circle of that thing, not unless you don’t want the skin on your flesh anymore.

The angle of the light catches something shiny in the dirt. A missing ring, perhaps? Or maybe the remains of some old farming equipment?

“My sprinklers,” Cevalus elaborates, to answer your curiosity, “My fresh Corkian sprinklers. That’s why I don’t want you to be in there too long: you’ll get too rough with them, and I’ll have to replace ‘em.”

You’re not sure if this complicates or simplifies things. Even if the sprinklers weren’t there, a direct encounter with Cevalus’ father is going to prove to be messy, especially if it keeps shooting his fireballs. Your mind clicks away at finding a solution; something tells you that it lies in using the sprinklers. Use it to douse the flames? No, the Corrupted can just reignite them. Use them to wet the ground and hope it loses its footing? Now that’s just ridiculous.

A random thunk came from the small cottage Cevalus resides in. A crate of rat poison has fallen over in the storage shed. Wait. Rat poison could kill Corrupteds too, right? That’s a thing? You’re fairly confident that it is. Stuff is practically made from acid after the huge arms race against the rats. Seemingly, people still lost against the rats.

“Cevalus, where is the reservoir to the sprinklers?”

“At the end side of the farm, but why would you need them? Surely you’re not thinking of drowning him with those things.”

“Rat poison,” you explain. 

Eiden looks taken aback. “Are you sure that’s gonna work? I mean, it’s not exactly protocol.” He contemplates the idea. “But then again, protocol didn’t say anything about picky farmers. I guess it could work.”

“It’ll be okay. If anything, it’ll just take care of his rat problem too.”

The farmer hesitates for a moment and gives his response, “I’ll allow it. Anything for my father to get the rest he deserves. This better work.”

-

From the crates of rat poison, you procure a vial of the navy liquid, viscous and heavy inside its container. Obviously, it wasn’t something that often worked on regular rats anymore due to their terrifyingly adaptive natures, but it’ll do for not-so-intelligent creatures, like the Corrupted. Its brains have probably fallen out by now. 

You sneak into the farm as stealthily as possible in your armor, to no avail. The Corrupted notices you embarrassingly fast, and the farmer makes a religious gesture across his chest in your direction. The mage has chosen to go with you, his cloth robes offering significantly more stealth. Eiden ducks behind some hay bales before the Corrupted can notice him. You, on the other hand, have no such luck, so the reanimated man targets its fireballs at you, singeing off the right side of your hair. You crouch behind another hay bale before it could adjust the aim to take off your head. 

The Corrupted stops its movement. So it really can’t think. You didn’t take such an advanced disease to lack object permanence. That little fact works in your favor, though, and you look over the side of the bale you’re behind to map your route to the sprinkler reservoir.

You look over to the mage. He shuffles over to your bale cautiously, the two of you close together. 

“What’s the plan?” he asks.

From earlier, you noticed that the bales were spread far enough to pave a straight path toward the reservoir, however, the actual reservoir didn’t have such cover amd would be open for attacks. You grit your teeth. You juggle around with your options. There weren’t very many. 

“The Corrupted doesn’t attack if it doesn’t see us. If we move fast enough, it won’t notice us in time to shoot.”

That just leaves how you’re going to get to the water. You take a deep breath. The only thing to do is…

“When we get to the reservoir, I’ll distract the thing. You just focus on pouring in the poison.”  The plan is set. No take backs. It’s not a time to be second-guessing your terrible decisions. 

“You’re kidding, right? If you haven’t noticed, that thing shoots  _ fireballs. _ ”

“It’ll stop as soon as the sprinklers turn on. As long as you’re fast, I won’t be completely barbequed.”

He gives a begrudging groan and then faces the reservoir. 

“You’d better be ready  _ right now _ ,” he mumbles. He makes a mad dash for the well at the opposite edge of the field.

The Corrupted perks up at Eiden’s sudden appearance, but you intercept his attention in the nick of time with a hastily shouted spell, and charred dirt flies up in front of you. The Corrupted definitely notices the action. It glowers at you, arms open to prepare another fireball. You step to the side before the fireball can hit you, instead hitting the bale you were in front of before; the sparks smolder and flicker before dying out in the coincidental wind that blows past. 

Eiden’s opening the cork now, vigorously shaking the bottle to coax the liquid out against the film it had created at the top. The navy blue liquid stains the water and dissolves out, turning the water gray. He signals you frantically. 

You duck for the lever that controlled the sprinklers and flip it on. The sprinklers respond mechanically, the sprays of rat poison and water cascading in line to douse the Corrupted and the crops as well. It would be beautiful, like one of those fountains you spotted in Ragni, if not for the fact that the centerpiece is a smoldering, pyromaniac corpse. You shield yourself with your newly gained satchel, the beads of water rolling off the glossy hide. Eiden mirrors your movements and pulls his outer vest over his head. It’s raining poison. Hallelujah.

The Corrupted is melting now, drowning in its own blood and fetid flesh. The fireball in its hands sputtered out as it used its hands to claw at its own face in a pained, monstrous howl. It’s dissolving in front of your eyes, the melange of the black oil and uncorrupted blood that pools on the ground juxtaposed strongly in front of the droplets in mid-flight, reflecting the noon light. It gives you a strong sense of deja vu along with the unsettled feelings that come along with witnessing the macabre beauty in front of you.

Eiden makes his way to the entrance of the farm with you, his vest still over his head. 

In between his heavy breathing, he manages, “Ohms above, I can’t believe that worked.”

The farmer approaches you as well, his face somber. He lifts your free hand and places five emeralds in it wordlessly. He does the same with Eiden, albeit with significantly more distaste. He walks further into his farm and kneels in front of the charred pit. 

You reach for his shoulder in sympathy. It must be difficult to watch your father die a second time, to be fair. He flinches and pushes your hand away, rejecting your condolences.

“You’re not used to this questing business yet, eh? Don’t let me sour your first taste of questing. Most people tend to be more grateful, but I guess I’m just a tad emotional right now.”

You leave the farmer to his grief, stepping back cautiously. The mage is already gone. The farmer speaks to you one last time to say:

“Thanks. Salted knows I couldn’t have done it myself.”

-

As you head back toward the inner walls of the fortress, you address your grievances with Eiden’s earlier exchange with the farmer. You find it hard to believe anyone can make it this far into the world with this sort of attitude. 

“You shouldn’t antagonize the farmer. He has his own duties, you know.”

“Don’t go preaching on me. You know how many people like this I deal with on the daily?”

“It just goes to show that you haven’t been showing the proper courtesy to any of them all this time.”

“Tch. Like they deserve it.” He glares at you, but then his expression changes to a contemplative melancholy, and he falls back into a defeated lethargy. “I’m keeping my emeralds. Consider it payment for staying in the recruitment office tonight.”

He remembers something, notably, but chooses not to elaborate on it. You can understand his reasoning, after all, you just berated him. His response gives you another way to describe the Ragni people:  _ personal. _


	4. Sewers of Ragni ☙

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Public service comes in many forms.

Sleep is sweet and affecting your back quite adversely. Between the caravan and the floor of the recruitment office, you’d take the caravan anytime. Not that you were complaining about having a place to stay your first night, but you really could have done without the sounds of the rats clambering over the floors at night.

That’s not to say you’re not thankful for the sunlight that pokes through the slits of the covered windows, warming your skin as it rises. It’s morning out, but just barely, according to the clock that hangs above the door. The spinning clock has finished its night cycle, the blue portion peeking out of the dial to welcome the day.

You sit up and rotate your shoulder in place, sore from using the heavy weapon that you wield. Maybe you should have tried harder to be a mage-scholar in Fruma, they always have less a load to carry, mostly just a light wand and little else, to your observations. But seeing as you are functionally illiterate as is, being a warrior would suit you just fine.

Eiden’s already gone, but he’s left half a loaf of bread on his desk along with a note with your name in large block letters, presumably for you to read. Hospitality was the last thing you expected from him given how he presented himself at the farm yesterday, but you’re relieved that you’ll save a couple of minutes from breakfast hunting today.

Breakfast or not, your pockets are still empty, so you flip through your quest book for some more lucrative quests that don’t involve partial immolation while chomping away at the surprisingly fresh bread. The first page shows the task you accepted yesterday. You didn’t know that it qualified as a quest. The knight was giving something to you, so wouldn’t it be a quest on his end? The page only says for you to meet with Therck at the edge of the Nivla Woods. You flip to the back page to see if the instructions elaborate, like you would be literate enough to read for further details. You shut the book. It’s clear enough that you need to head to Nivla.

The map rustles as you retrieve it from the side pocket of the satchel you stowed it in. The satchel is dotted with lighter spots where the corrosive poison sprayed onto it yesterday. Speaking of corrosives, the minor blisters you suffered from contact also seemed to be gone; only a couple of spots remain where the new skin appears. Perhaps the mage took the liberty of healing you in the morning. Shame you won’t get the chance to properly thank him. He was pretty clear about moving you along.

You unfurl the map, a jumble of Wynnic letters greeting you immediately. The only flag you can identify on the map is Ragni’s seeing as it's the same flag embroidered into every piece of clothing you own, but you entertain pronouncing the other city names as well. D-E-T-L-A-S. N-E-M-R-A… was that a C or an F? You pronounce it in your head: Nem-ract, Nem-raft. Nemraft seems about right.

You trace the path from the woods to Ragni with a finger, along a trail called the Emerald Trail. Emeralds: if only, if only. There are a couple of facilities there as well, including an item identifier and an item merchant almost adjacent to each other. You wonder if the two are related in any way, and if so, you think, their relationship would supposedly be very profitable, especially because you’re due for an upgrade past the poor grade of spear that you brought into Wynn. You hope the Emerald Trail stays true to its name as to not bankrupt you on the second day of employment. From what you’ve heard, villagers are very strict about their credit policies, which is not going to be great news for you if you continue to be broke in this country.

You follow the coordinate lines across the map to find the approximate square that Therck would be in, then used two fingers to measure the distance between your location and his. It wouldn’t take very long to get to the end of the Emerald Trail, it was maybe a ten-minute walk or less depending on whether or not your sense of direction is cooperative today; the only delays would probably stem from having to also cull away the swarms of Corrupted that tend to congregate around the ruins of the plains nearby. Otherwise, it was simple enough to fulfill the quest.

Strapping into your armor and fitting the rest of your gear on, you head out the door with half a loaf of bread in your mouth. The red rays settle over the cold cobblestone roads of Ragni, giving the fortress a sleepy look. It’s an idyllic moment of peace to see the Ragni relatively quiet, with morning shipments being wheeled in with no more sound than an ungreased wheel squeaking and donkeys huffing from fatigue. The merchants are setting up in the town plazas, airing out colorful banners and pitching tents to protect their goods from flying away in the ocean breeze that sweeps through the west gate. From their progress, it’ll be about another hour before the morning rush starts and the silence is replaced with noisy bargaining and screaming villagers of both the youth and adult variety.

You make your way out of the same gate as yesterday. Instead of taking the left where the farms are, you step nervously ahead. The golems stare at you, as is the nature of their machinery, their red eyes boring into you coldly as you try to keep a straight face and avert your gaze. The path is bare, with only hardy weeds and faded black oil stains as a sign of current (and prior) life forms. As you make your way down the path, the latecomers pass you from the opposite side, hauling more donkeys and covered wagons from Detlas to set up shop in Ragni.

More proof of civilization comes as the watchtower comes into view, flanked by colorful tents buying and selling weapons. The archers stand at the top of the tower, the days of constant vigilance long gone after the death of Bak’al, allowing the archers to rest their postures and fidget about. An arrow flies out of the tower and lands itself true in the forehead of a Corrupted, spilling black oil to a growing puddle of both new and old blood around the foundational remains of a cottage.

You make a quick pit stop to replace your sorry excuse for a spear. You toss the eleven emeralds onto the counter, counting them perhaps a little too parsimoniously. (The mage never actually took them, and not going to lie, you’re grateful that he didn’t.) Wordlessly, the merchant rolls a spear with a light-colored handle onto the counter. The interaction is a stark contrast to the hospitality and overbearing friendliness that you’re getting used to, and perhaps it is for the best. It’s better not to get too close to people in the changing war climate. Perhaps the mage is right to be truculent.

To assist the archers, you kill the rest of the Corrupted with your spear. The archers give a brief nod down from their perches as acknowledgment for your help. There’s nothing wrong with getting a little practice and thinning out the herds of Corrupted. The birch wood is surprisingly sturdy and doesn’t feel like it’s going to splinter to pieces every time you use it, unlike the previous oak spear that you dumped in the growing pile of scrap wood next to the wood refinery. Killing the zombies is surprisingly a lot easier than in the mine from yesterday, probably from the exposure that the plains offer, gusty winds and all. The zombies seem somewhat disoriented, their clouded scleras sightlessly open as they wander the plains. Some drop glittery pieces of emeralds in their wake from their time in life, of which you quickly pocket.

Therck waits at the gate of Nivla Woods with his station set up comfortably. His workstation is covered in what seems to be trinkets and other small pieces of junk, but there are also larger pieces of unfinished wood weapons and debarked sticks on the same table. You do math better than you can read, so you put two and two together and conclude that the trinkets were for improving the weapons to some extent, more so than the standard ones made en masse from Bob knows where.

Therck’s thoroughly engrossed in his work, carving an unstrung bow slowly and bringing it up within an inch of his squinted eyes to observe his meticulous woodwork. You brace yourself in anticipation of some rudeness from Therck. If what Enzan said about him is true, he’s not going to be pleased that you’re interrupting his work. Before you can go get his attention, he slaps the bow on the bench and snaps his face around, his eyes wide and piercing.

“Your horribly-made boots told me everything I need to know about you. What do you want, soldier? If it’s my work permit, tell your buddies to look again,” he bites. You offer a tight-lipped smile in response, remembering, unfortunately, to be polite. You draw a new hypothesis: the farther you are from Ragni, the more hostile these people get. What changed between Ragni and the Emerald Trail?

“Enzan sent me on a quest,” you show him an open page in your book, pointing to the dark text burned into the book with magic. Therck glances down at the page for a moment but doesn’t read it, by his impossibly quick response. Something tells you that he’s dealt with this plenty of times.

“That sneaky slime-for-brains! He does this thing asking me to hand out crafting materials because he’s too polite to tell you that adventurers make too little off quests to sustain themselves for long, then he tells them I’m the mean one.”

That hit a little hard, considering your precarious view off the brink of poverty. You raise a finger to defend yourself, then put it down, for there’s nothing to fight except for the economy.

“Hell, why do you think so many soldiers run off to guilds and such in their first years? It’s always money! My point is, pick up a profession and pray.”

Therck shakes his head in pity and the faintest hint of empathy to your situation. He sweeps his hand across his workbench and hooks his finger on a length of chain. He takes your hand and drops it in.

“Used to hand out powders, but I think a craftsman like you can make good use of this instead.”

“How did you know?” Even when you look at your reflection in a pond, you don’t believe you look much like a tailor at all, which is a good thing because you want to look like a noble warrior of Ragni and not some mothball-smelling shut-in.

He ignores your inquiry. “Your thumb’s all roughed up. Use a thimble, will you?” The edges of his cracked lips curl into a fond smile, evident by the movement of his wrinkles. He shies away from you when he spots you still there, coughing to set his face back to a neutral expression again. Therck continues scraping at the bow he was working on earlier, back to his meticulous craft.

-

You walk yourself to the sketchy potion merchant you noted earlier, ducking your head inside briefly only to meet the merchant smiling straight ahead, eyes unblinking. You ask him for potion prices, which are slightly more expensive than Ragni’s, so you politely decline. He haggles you in the usual salesman way but with a sort of sinister look in his eye the entire time. His word choice to describe his goods doesn’t exactly comfort you either. Who in their right mind would so flagrantly admit that their product is “sketchy”?

The merchant gets excited when you take a step forward, but then you notice the silvery glint of string on the floor. Without moving your head, your eyes follow the string to the wall, connected to a tripwire hook. There are no words as to how much you do not trust this business. Now that you’re thinking about it, you swear you can hear the screeches of bats and monsters under your feet.

You make an awkward excuse to get out, and he notices the lie, but he doesn’t act on it. Something tells you that he can’t move from his spot. You look back as you exit the gate, his gaze still staring and smiling holes through your back. Geez.

You step to the side of the house, shading yourself from the bright sun on the plains under the overhang of the shop, away from the view of the potion merchant. The chills going up your back counteract the sweat rolling down your body from the heat of the many protective layers you’re wearing. There should be a better way to make clothing so that it’s not mutually exclusive from comfort.

You flip open the quest book again to the first page. The ink swirls around in a confusing blotted pattern and wipes itself off the page, signaling the completion of the quest. The details of the finished quest migrate themselves to the back of the book, sort of like a receipt but thankfully without any promises of thirty-day refunds. You don’t have the emeralds to be refunding any unsatisfied citizens.

The new quest scribes itself on the front page. Your eyes immediately dart down to the reward. No reward. You read your way back to the top, giving attention to the big red font at the top of the page that read ‘urgent’. The military has been requesting help for quite some time now, apparently, according to the time stamp on the page. It’s been a week since help had been requested and no one has accepted the quest yet. You bite your lip. It sure would be nice to get paid in cash, but it’s also your duty to assist Ragni in any way… right?

You flip through the rest of the pages. All blank. You’re doing it, you guess. The quest would probably be small, judging by the prolonged lack of response. That'll have to be your good deed for the day. Salted better be watching, wherever he is.

Your fingers follow the letters. Meet J-E-N-P-R-E-S-T at the Ragni sewers. You gander that it’s a small zombie problem near Katoa Ranch. All that liquid waste can’t be good for anyone, much less the Corrupted.

You reach for your map but tap on your bag with your hand for a couple of moments before scouring your mind for directions. No better time than the present to test your memory of the landscape, especially if you're going to be here for a long time. With your recent failing memory, it’s wisest to keep sharp as much as possible. If you recall correctly, the Ragni sewers are right outside the west gate of the fortress.

Shifting your gears to locate the sewers from where you stand at the Emerald Trail, you notice a pungent smell that you must have been ignoring before. How you ever managed to do that is a mystery, as the smell hits you like a well-bred white horse at full gallop. The sewers have been around long enough to acquire its own specific stench, smelling of the dead, fishy seawater and the general waste that Ragni flushes into its drains. The sewers have a dominating presence, to say the least.

You cut through the outskirts of Ragni instead of going back into the fortress through the gates. A cursory glance into the peak hours of market activity reveals to you a crowd that will not take kindly to having a man fully clad in armor bumping into others with his spear.

You opt for the shortcut used by the farmers on the outskirts instead. The path on the outside isn’t defined as the path through the Emerald Trail or the roads in Ragni. The beaten patches of yellow grass and exposed spots of sand reveal a history of the path’s involuntary development by similar-minded people who wished to avoid the hustle and bustle waiting in Ragni. It’s significantly more dangerous due to the lazing zombies ready to snap at passersby who get too close, but it should be no trouble to someone armed like yourself. After all, the farmers who also use the path seem to still be alive after cutting through the plains more than once.

As you approach the main drain to the sewers, the stench gets stronger, strong enough for you to discriminate what specifically the smell is comprised of. You wonder how the Ragnians can stand living next to it, much less stand next to it. The drain cuts into the side of the mountain, leaking gray-green filth into a clogged stream below. The stream trickles into the babbling brook that runs at the base of Katoa Ranch, losing its sickly color as it assimilates with the rest of the water.

Two figures greet you there, one stranger and one familiar.

“Eiden?” you say, perplexed. There’s no cash reward, so you can’t fathom why someone like him would be interested in taking the quest. But then again, you’re sure he thinks the same about you.

“It’s customary to address the highest-ranking member first, soldier,” the other grunts. Your hand shoots up to your forehead and salute reflexively out of fear. They offer a hand to you, palms and fingers stiff like cut stone. You take the hand gingerly, to be met by a loose and wild shake. “Loosen up, soldier! I’m Lieutenant Jenprest, and I take you’re familiar with Mage Hamses here? It’s sure good timing you’re here; I didn’t think anyone would actually volunteer for this, ‘specially since there aren’t any emeralds to be earned. I was about to tell Hamses here about the job.” They pat his shoulder heartily.

Eiden scrunches up his nose in disgust and suddenly you’re instilled with the realization that you’ve made a horrible mistake. Dear Bob, this isn’t going to be the minor extermination you thought it would be, is it?

You don’t like the way Jenprest is gesturing to the drain.

Oh no.

Jenprest says the dreaded words. “It’s a blocked pipe. You’ll have to get your hands dirty.” You fight the urge to groan.

 “I’ll give you some time to get ready, so get to the top o’ the hill when you’re good to go. Don’t go grooking out on me, soldier!” They march ahead first, gravel underfoot crunching loudly with the heavy footsteps.

“So, why are you here?” Eiden asks.

“I came to fulfill a request I received from the quest book. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. And thanks for the heal by the way.”

“Didn’t peg you as the type to do volunteer stuff, I mean, everyone else ignores these jobs. Anyways, why don’t you step back and see how a real mage-scholar works.” He stretches out his shoulders, his bony joints jutting out under his robes. He doesn’t acknowledge the heal from this morning.

“Why’d you take the job then?” you ask.

He stops flexing for a moment. “What did you say?”

“Why this job,” you repeat.

“I--”, he stutters before putting on a more professional tone, “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”

His excuse is very suspicious. He’s hiding something, of course, as you’re so infuriatingly getting used to. It would certainly help if you had more information on what he intends on doing inside the sewers, as to not get you splashed in the crossfire. Mages will be mages though, and you’re not going to complain about the extra help.

You head off up the hill with Eiden, a sizable amount of distance between the two of you until you go up the bottleneck path up the hill, where you lead the way with Eiden trailing behind wordlessly. Jenprest has their arms crossed and taps their foot impatiently at the top of the hill, and immediately starts talking as soon as they catch wind of you.

“Ah, you’re already here! So here’s the short of it: we get in, deploy these explosives,” they underhand toss a stick of explosive to you, not unlike the kind used in the mines from yesterday. Industrial strength. It must be one heck of a blockage. “And keep your wits about you! Salted knows what kinds of nasties the sewers have in there. Let’s go, go go!” They complement the verbal push with a physical shove, almost planting you face-first into the sewer entrance.

Jenprest walks in front at a significant distance, hopping expertly from stone to stone and kicking up dirty water, lantern in tow. “You guys focus on protectin’ me from behind, I’ll keep watch for the blockage in the front.”

“Are they always like that?” you grumble out of earshot before realizing that when you ask a question, you might get an answer from someone who’s listening. Especially if that person is standing right next to you.

Eiden already looks exasperated. “They come to the academy for recruiting often. So yes, they’re always like ‘that’.”

   Jenprest doesn’t seem to hear the conversation. They’re busy shifting their neck from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, preoccupied with finding the blockage. They mutter a couple of comments under their breath before marching on forward hurriedly without you.

There’s an awkward pause. The humidity of the sewers doesn’t help the uncomfortable tension forming between you and Eiden. You scramble to find some words to say, but he beats you to it first.

“So, uh… you… Fruma?” He struggles to find his words a bit before choosing a conversation starter. His efforts at making small talk are appreciated, though, a slight distraction away from the slimy filth sticking uncomfortably onto you as you hop over puddles.

“Oh, great! Fruma’s…” You’re struggling to find words in turn. Your reply comes out more as a reflex than a legitimate sentiment about your home country. How is Fruma? You try to recall some memories, but nothing comes back. Family? No, there’s nothing save for a faint knowledge of the fact that you must have been born somehow. Occupation, relationships, childhood memories, all of it is barred off by big gaps of black void. You blink in disbelief as if it would help you jog your memory. There’s a nagging feeling that somehow, those gaps have been there since your arrival, but you didn't address them at the time. How could you have forgotten all of that?

Your eyes dart around the sewer way contemplatively, mirroring your subconscious search for something to say to Eiden.

You scrunch your face in worried confusion. “I don’t remember,” you reply defeatedly.

The mage hesitates for what seems like a pang of regret for asking the question. “Sorry for asking.”

Jenprest’s frustrated groan rings out through the pipe, disturbing some bats roosting on the edges of the ceiling. The echo distorts their voice to a low roar, chilling you up the spine. But wait. Aren’t echoes supposed to get quieter? Out of your peripherals, you spot a dark shadow and two glowing eyes that blink upon discovery. The shadow scurries across your path, revealing its full figure, its size greater than a human’s and definitely not resembling that of any sewer life here. You yelp in response, like any logical person would do when confronted with a mysterious figure that’s larger than you.

“You saw that right?” you point at a blank wall incredulously.

“Saw what? A rat? Plenty of those down here,” Eiden comments sarcastically.

Nobody saw it. It’s probably the horridness of the sewer getting the best of you. Hold yourself together, Lucas! If one measly pipe blockage is going to spook you, then you might as well just go home now.

You catch up to Jenprest, who’s eerily quiet for a moment as they focus intently at the wall ahead. “Do you feel like something’s watchin’ that doesn’t want us here?” they whisper.

“Anyways, I found the source of the blockage. It’s a big one too.” They gesture to the mass of brown matter and mud clogging up the pipe that intersects with the walkways. The water coming out of it is barely a trickle. The rocks below the pipe are slick with green algae, which probably took root quickly after the water receded.

“I tossed an explosive up there in advance. Do the honors and set it off for me?” They toss you a flint-and-steel unceremoniously. Of course, you’re the one who has to get close to that thing. You climb the sides, trying your best to not notice the stuff that’s getting on your hands as you grip the slick stone on the walls. You spot the bright red of the explosive coming up on your left. You hop off the wall and crouch on a dry spot on the platform, adjusting your balance so you don’t fall into the dirty water below. You also try your best to dispel that image from your head. This is awfully reminiscent of yesterday’s events with the soldier in the shed. You hope your career’s going to be more than just blowing things up, or a stray spark might just cut it short. You strike the iron bar against the flint rock over the fuse of the explosive, coaxing out a couple of weak sparks that go out upon touching the cold platform. The rock gets hotter in your hand as you strike it repeatedly. Why couldn’t the mage have done it? He’s the one studying how to summon fire and other magic stuff!

After what seemed like an eternity, the sparks catch onto the fuse, leaving a small window of opportunity to take cover or be in the splash zone. You hop down to the side of the wall next to Eiden in front of the blockage. The two of you share the same idea to get out of this cursed place as soon as humanly possible. Jenprest stands around the corner, keeping a significant distance between themself and the blockage. You lift up an arm to see the rubble fall away from the pipe, loosening the gunk that had built up around the edges. A hunk of the stuff falls to the ground, a shell outlining the stone detail of the pipe. The pipe gurgles, the calm before the storm that’s going to be a tide of old sewage.

“Something’s not right,” Jenprest exclaims, stepping back warily. You and Eiden mutually exchange tired tight-lipped expressions. This is really not your day.

“Get to cover! You find another way out, I’ll go get help!” they yell and disappear from view around the corner in a mad dash.

The wave comes all at once, and suddenly, leaving you no time to prepare before getting the air punched out of you. You kick frantically to stay above the water, roughly coughing the water out. Beside you, Eiden struggles to stay above water, the flame on his wand extinguished. Even magic fire can’t compare to the sheer power of Ragni’s sewers. You wrap an arm around him, not to his protest and look with blurred vision for a higher platform.

You swim with one hand over to a free platform with the mage in tow. He grabs onto the bit of ladder hanging off the side and climbs up, while you flop onto the platform, soaking wet and feeling horribly filthy. No amount of scrubbing is going to take these stains out. You both cough the water out for a moment, retching it back into the river. It won’t be missed. You sit there in silence for a minute, with only the sounds of rushing water and popping of the wand fire springing back to life.

“Bob, this was such a mistake. Took this job so the recruiters would get off my back about joining the military, but I couldn’t say that with Jenprest around. They have ears of a hawk, you know. This is more than a lifetime and a half’s worth of service. Don’t know how you do it.”

“My best tip for you is to learn to hold your tongue in front of others.”

“Don’t get so cocky. Ragnians will tear you apart if you’re this much of a doormat all the time. Anyways,” he waves his wand and casts a spell with a quick gesture. Suddenly, the burning feeling in your nostrils clears up and your lungs don’t feel weighed down anymore. He casts some more heal spells in quick succession expertly until even the joint pain you felt from this morning is faded away. The spots of the healed blisters from this morning darken to a flush color with your skin. It doesn’t help any of the wetness, though, but with all the energy that’s back in you, it hardly matters.

“T-Thank you,” you stutter. The stark contrast between his penchant for kindness and his habit of snarkiness leaves you completely baffled. You’re starting to think that it’s a side effect of living in Ragni.

“I’m going now.” The mage holds his wand like a torch, moving forward without you, leaving you in shadow. You scramble to your feet to catch up. He only gets more infuriating by the second. You wish you had the gall he has, so you can tell him off for his attitude.

You soon reach a gate and come to a sudden halt. It’s locked, but there’s nothing like a little reckless spellcasting that won’t work on the eroding iron bars. The wear and rust are covered in a thin layer of moss, giving it a more sturdy appearance than it actually is. It’ll be a risk to cast something as destructive as a bash spell in a delicately constructed area, but there isn’t any other choice unless you decide to go swimming in the sewer river again. Eiden steps back as you step forward, leaning into a stance for the bash spell. He stops you just as you open your mouth to speak the spell.

“Hey, do you hear that?” Eiden asks, spreading his fire to every torch on the wall to brighten up the area. So he could do that, but he still left you in the dark? Wow. And in response to his question, you don’t hear anything, per se, but you definitely feel the chill raising goosebumps on your arm, a visceral warning that something is off. You listen closer. Nothing but the sound of dripping and the lingering echoes of the native life.

Drip.

Drip.

Thunk.

Thunk?

A zombie drops from the ceiling, different from the kind you’d encountered on the Emerald Trail this morning. It is dressed in a tattered canvas cloak, stained black with Corrupted oil. To believe that it had once been red blood. Come to think of it, you can swear there’s a little stickiness to your step that wasn’t there before you look down. The water is tainted with the same black oil. You daren’t look above to see what’s waiting. If they’re dormant, then let it stay that way.

It lunges at Eiden, who instinctively casts a couple of bolts with his wand onto the Corrupted, who does not stop. His panic stirs up the attention of the sewer rats and bats around, all of which add to the chaos emerging in the chamber. All the meanwhile the iron gate is mocking you, effectively cornering the two of you.

The oil puddle half-dried on the floor is larger than it was when you encountered it with new and shiny oil to add to the mix. Your eyes trail up to the slow drip, now speeding up, to meet a half a dozen glinting eyes waking up in the shadow. Talk about adding insult to injury. Three more Corrupteds drop down, less dressy than the first one, if that was possible. Now you’re actually cornered with Eiden, who’s shooting magic bolts at the rats and bats to thin out the herd. Smart thinking, but that just leaves you with the four that are snapping at you.

You stab one in the head, just like you practiced with the weaker ones on the Emerald Trail. To your horror, it gets back up for more instead of staying down like you were getting used to, unfazed by the attack. They’re coming a little too close for comfort and you scramble around your mind to find the right words for the spell. There’s blaze and tension building in your arms, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. If you’re going to die here, you’re going to take down every damn Corrupted here down with you.

In the dim torchlight, you notice a key hanging to the belt of the Corrupted. A key to the lock. Turns out you might not have to compromise the infrastructure of the sewers after all. You hook the key with your spear, separating the key chain from the belt with ease as the belt crumbles at the touch.

“Eiden, the key!” you toss him the key and his long fingers catch the chain. He fumbles about getting the key into his grip. He jiggles the rusted thing frantically into the equally rusted lock. The fire on his wand burns nervously, twisting in every direction like a lookout.

Kerchunk.

The gate creaks open then screeches as Eiden throws it open wide. All that blaze and tension stuff you said earlier dissipates as you see your window of opportunity, make like a sewer rat, and run for it. Your blood pounds in your eyes in tandem with your steps, feeling the Corrupteds only hair-lengths behind. You run ahead of Eiden, who is evidently not used to running in these spaces.

Ahead are some fallen pillars and more importantly, another pipe elevated away from the Corrupted. There’s a pool where the pipe empties out from prior years of flooding. It’s also the perfect chokepoint to put some distance between you and the zombies. You hop on the first broken pillar, making your way to the next, careful not to slip now. Eiden follows suit, albeit slower, leaving a precariously small gap between him and the nearest monster. You pull him onto a ledge, still a little bit away from the pipe, but you’re still grateful for the breathing space. Perhaps Bob is watching you after all.

The growling below is unnerving. They’re mobbing the pillar directly below you, grasping loosely onto the smooth stone, wearing it away pebble by pebble. Eventually, you’ll have to leave, and you’ll have to make sure the last jump is perfect, lest you risk being torn apart by the things down below, not counting what’s waiting in that watery pit if you should fail the jump.

“I had it under control,” Eiden breathes heavily, “You should’ve just let me work.”

“You were stirring up a scene with the residents and now we’re here literally surrounded by Corrupteds.”

“Oh? You were standing in the way of me hitting it! All you had to do was stay out of the way.”

“Don’t forget who saved you from drowning back there! And who found the key to, you know, still be alive here,” you growl. From what you saw, he really didn’t have it under control, not at all. He should thank his lucky stars that you haven’t pushed him off the ledge yet.

He shifts away from you suddenly, leaning away from you. “Well, I never--” He stops mid-sentence to catch his breath. He blinks a couple times before adjusting his seat again and clears his throat.

“...It’s the humidity. Say, why don’t we finish this quest and agree to not see each other again. For real this time.”

“I concur.” There’s a brief moment of silence with only the groans of the Corrupteds and the splashing of water to punctuate the still moment. There’s been a lot of awkward silence today, perhaps for the better.

“Okay. Last jump,” you declare. The gap is definitely manageable now that you’ve caught your breath, and beyond that, there’s walking space that opens a route back to the main part of the sewer. Just a little more now. You stir Eiden, who glares back at you annoyedly. He sees your cue to keep moving.

You teeter over the edge, trying to get as close as possible to anything to grasp onto on the other side. You make the leap.

There’s a moment when your feet don’t touch the ground, and you’re absolutely terrified, stretching your arms out in front of you for anything to hold onto. Your hands brush against a thick vine and you squeeze it, relieved when your feet land onto solid ground again. You turn around and offer a hand to Eiden, who is stretching his arms out to balance like a tightrope walker. He’s too aware of what’s below him and makes the nervous jump.

Eiden just misses the ledge.

He screams.

The Corrupteds snap at him below, bobbing up and down from the water, their own rotting arms outstretched to grab onto the first loose article they can get their hands on. The water turns white with the splashing, soon stained gray by the oil diffusing into it.

Eiden holds on by a single hand. He’s slipping; his knuckles turn pale from the effort of curling so hard to grip the slippery stone. You catch his hand in the nick of time. Your other hand grips his wrist and hoists him up right before the leader can grab onto his impractically long robe.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he manages between pants, weakly waving his wand to heal the both of you. You don’t think it repairs psychological damage.

You reach to pat his back lightly, but he pushes your hand away.

“After this, I swear I’m never going to see you again. I’m supposed to be a mage-scholar, not some doomed quester!”

…

You’re not going to debate him on that. It’s true, after all. So hopefully you can prove him wrong, do some good with your life, no matter how hopelessly illiterate.

There’s a low rumbling coming from the tunnel ahead, then a guttural sound that can’t possibly be human. The volume increases until it’s an ear-splitting roar, stopping you in your tracks. Eiden’s stopped too, staring straight ahead and shakily pointing straight ahead. You follow his finger to meet what he’s pointing at.

A dark figure stands in front of you. Its eyes are clouded almost pure white, the darkness of the tunnels mitigating the use for light completely, and its skin is stretched leathery tight across its face, revealing more detail about a creature’s anatomy than you would ever care, or want, to know. Though tall and wiry, it does not seem frail. It absorbs all the light around it, darkening the surroundings and commanding attention.

The most terrifying part about it is that you know its name.

“Witherhead,” you gasp, the sound coming off your tongue as if you had said it many times before, compelling you to call its name, to give it power.

It gurgles the beginnings of words to you, and you can just barely make them out: something, something, “Get away from here… please”. More likely, it’s what you want to hear from it, and not really what it says. It reaches a long finger in your direction. You are more than ready to get the Dern out of dodge.

So you do.

But before you can make a single move, it disappears in a puff of dense, black smoke. That’s one problem solved.

Eiden’s shaken to his core, an appropriate response to meeting the scourge of the sewers. He clasps his hands together, sputtering out a garbled prayer before pursing his lips and taking an awkward step toward the end of the tunnel.

“Jenprest really owes me now,” he shakes his head in disbelief. “I was in school for a reason.”

The metronomic tink-tink of dripping water replaces the blood rumbling in your ears. The tunnel is silent again, and no longer as dark as you initially thought it to be. Even a sinister tunnel can become a ray of light once you meet the Witherhead’s ugly mug up close, you guess.

Eiden lights all the torches along the path in precaution now, not wanting a repeat mistake of getting caught off guard by any other surprise cadavers. His breath comes out ragged and shaken now, and you hear him mumbling words to soothe himself. You clap your hands together and force a smile.

“Once we finish, you won’t have to see the Witherhead again!” you attempt to cheer him up.

He glares at you, “I’m the one who has to live with the knowledge that the darned thing exists in the first place! That thing should have stayed a myth.” He lights another burned-out lamp with an aloof flick of his wrist to emphasize his point.

The tunnel rumbles in the distance. This part is getting really, really old. You’re never complaining about the overworld again.

“Run,” you say flatly. You grab the mage’s hand, to his short-lived protests; he quickly shut up after the second tremor ran through the tunnel and kept his pace with yours.

Water gushes into the tunnel, bringing a spray of dirty water. It comes in like a tidal wave, extinguishing every torch Eiden had lit in its path. The growling grows louder.

You run for it, leaping over the thick vines that path across the floor and crevices where the tile had weathered away from floods past. Eiden shakes of your grip, following in pace, albeit more clumsily than you. Droplets of water nip the back of your boots, a warning of what is to come.

You turn your head around wildly, seeking a way out, anywhere to weather out the wave. A dark hole glares on the side. You push ahead for it. The mage sees it too and picks himself up to a pace that you weren’t aware he was capable of. You both jump into it and shut the emergency hatch behind you.

Not a moment too soon, the wave crashes by, followed by a silence, then a slow trickle of water coming in from where the hatch’s seal had eroded away. You knock on the metal. A knocking echoes back from the outside, undulled by water. It should be safe to go out now.

The water has drained out somewhere, leaving its mark in the form of grossness left on the floor. Eiden’s wand is a low light, reflecting his fatigue. You’re ready to get out of here too.

You wonder how Jenprest is doing. Dry, you scowl.

The end of the larger tunnel comes soon after. It’s shored up with loads of debris and cemented together by years of filth. You trace the scratches on the rock, an odd hundred tally marks, some older form of Wynnic that you can’t read, but can postulate was probably a record of some kind. You hesitate upon the marks that aren’t Wynnic. They’re certainly deliberate marks made by someone. You can’t read it, but it feels familiar, familiar almost like you could have grown up with it. Fruman, perhaps? No, the memory seems more visceral. You touch your palm to the rock. You wonder…

“The Ragni sewers,” Eiden interrupts your thought. He sounds as if reciting a passage from a book, “Housed many Ragni citizens at the beginning of the Corruption. This must have been one of the temporary camps.”

He points to the scratches you observed earlier.

“Someone was born here. That’s the midwife’s name and that one… huh, weird. The mother’s name isn’t listed here. It just says ‘mother’.”

He raps his knuckles on the wall, “Anyway, this seal looks like a bang-up job. Considering that this part of the sewer hasn’t caved in on us already from the structural disintegrity, I’d say we’re pretty close to the surface.”

“You mean behind this wall is outside?”

“Yeah,” Eiden says and adds under his breath, “They really meant it when they said warriors weren’t the brightest kind…”

You don’t let his comment get under your skin. Baby steps, Lucas, you think, baby steps.

“It better still be light outside,” Eiden grumbles.

He retrieves the explosive from the side of his bag. The cloth wrapped around it is still wet, but there were enough layers of it so that the dynamite inside it remained dry.

Wait, no, that’s not a great idea. If there’s anything you know about bad smells, it's fuel.

“There might be gas in this part of the sewers so don’t--” You reach for his wrist.

Too late. Eiden summons his fire--real fire, not magic-- at the end of his wand, blazing and bright. Behind him, the ceiling lights up with blue, cloudy flames that turn angrily red. Eiden turns back frozen and wide-eyed and time stops around you. You throw yourself over the mage and brace yourself for the explosion. You don’t feel it before it all snaps to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One hiatus over, more to come.  
> I've recently found more direction and inspiration in a sudden burst of need for productivity. I live to create.


End file.
